


Christmas spirits

by allysseriordan



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Gen, M/M, Yule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28286325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allysseriordan/pseuds/allysseriordan
Summary: It's Christmas time and Mordred is in a bad mood. He would rather be a child again in the Orkney Islands celebrating Yule.
Relationships: Galahad/Mordred (Arthurian)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Christmas spirits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sinna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinna/gifts).



The corridors of the castle were crawling with servants carrying wreaths, garlands, and other decorations Mordred would rather forget. He had woken up especially early against his own instincts to evade this very sight, but his plan hadn’t worked. The servants had beaten him to it.

‘Kay…’ he grumbled under his breath for someone to blame. The seneschal had no doubt ordered the servants to be up before dawn so the castle would be ready when the King awoke.

A servant ran into him as he turned a corner. ‘I’m so sorry Sir,’ they mumbled, cowering under the murderous glare of Mordred’s icy blue eyes. He shoved them aside and carried on his way to the kitchen. He should have gone out for his food but it was too late. He was already three quarters of the way to the kitchen.

A small boy ran past him, the basket on his back overflowing with branches and twigs of varying shapes and forms. Mordred stopped in his track, watching him run down the steps to the kitchen, his body balancing the load with ease. The fiery red hair on his head reminded Mordred of his brothers, racing him to the bonfire. Gaheris had always been the fastest but Mordred had never minded. After the death of King Lot, he had been the one allowed to light the bonfire. Him and him alone. A flaming torch in his hand, he would proudly march the distance between the castle and the towering pile of heather and peat. On good years they had been allowed to garnish the load with wood. The torch had been too heavy for him in the first few years, his muscles straining to keep it upright, the flames wavering far too close to his frail body, but he had never minded. Lighting the bonfire was his privilege because he alone amongst the Orkney brood was deemed strong enough to set the world alight and invite the spirits into this world. He had been told many times that the fire did the opposite. It kept the spirits away, kept you safe, but he had known better. Slowly bringing the torch down to the lower level of peat and heather, he had grazed the dried vegetation, murmuring prayers and whispers to changelings and spirits of the other world. He had always waited until the explosion of flames began before retreating and then he could jump. Before Gawain, before Agravaine, before any of the proud strong young men of the island, him, small and misshapen body, had been allowed the first jump. He had thrown the torch into the belly of the bonfire, taken careful steps back his eyes always glued to the growing flames, his eyes drying. People had cheered around him, musicians chanting songs of old to appease the other worlds, asking for pity and the return of the sun. He had prayed for a longer winter, flickering flames dancing on the stone walls of the castle, speaking in tongues to him and him alone. He had run as fast as his legs could carry, launching his body into the air, above the fire. Flames licked at his clothes in approval and every time he had wanted to let go of this world, of stopping his momentum and falling in with the spirits, but he had never been brave enough for that. Up in the air he was she and he and them. His body, his mind, his spirits had had no boundaries. For a brief instant he had been all of them. Until his feet would hit the ground on the other side to the cheers and applause of the crowds growing wild. The celebrations could begin.

‘Sir?’

Mordred’s eyes focused on the youth in front of him, bundles of woods in their arms.

‘What,’ he barked back.

‘No…no…nothing Sir.’ They scampered away, Mordred following them more slowly down the steps to the kitchen. He longed for the smell of sun cakes but was greeted with the pervasive smell of fruit cakes seeped in alcohol. The entire kitchen was one frenzy of movements, cooks and helping hands dancing around one another in what Mordred had to admit was an expertly manoeuvred choreography. As a child he had enjoyed joining them, twirling between their legs, infused with the knowledge that spirits would soon inhabits the earth and dance with him in the same way. There were no spirits here, not this far south of the land. He ignored the movement of people around and made a straight line to the pantry, people stopping and clashing around him but never daring to bump into him. He grabbed a loaf of bread, some cheese and apples, and left as quickly as he had arrived.

He wrinkled his nose in a vain attempt to dislodge the smells from his nose but only managed to make himself more aware of how everything was wrong. Everything was always wrong this time of year. If it weren’t for Galahad he would never stay. The Orkney islands were too far for him to travel to every year, but at least he could escape in the woods, maybe ride as far as his aunt Morgan’s domain and spend this dreaded month of celebration there. She did not celebrate as he had as a child but she understood how barriers between world trembled at this time of year, letting spirits in, spirits to be celebrated and welcomed. But Galahad had pleaded with him, eyes earnest and impossible to refuse. Not for the first time, he wondered if Galahad would ever forego his stupid Christmas traditions to follow him, Mordred, into the woods to join the spirits in a mad frenzied half remembered dance. He didn’t have to wonder for long, the answer was always going to be negative.

Mordred slammed the door of his chambers shut, dropped his loot onto the bed, and waited. He stood still, eyes closed, attempting to sense the world around of shadows and spirits, but all that reached him was the scrambling of feet and increasing chatter of the castle in effervescence at the oncoming Christmas feast. He grumbled, falling onto his bed, his appetite gone. A soft knock on his door jarred him upright. Only Galahad knocked so gently. He opened the door.

‘Good morning.’ The other knight smiled at him and leaned forward for a gentle kiss on his cheek.

‘Morning,’ Mordred replied in a whisper, his frustration decreasing under the touch of Galahad. He dragged him inside, hands already gliding under the too white shirt of his lover. There were other ways to forget Christmas and celebrate the spirits, ways Galahad didn’t need to know where more than love making, more than flesh against flesh at this time of year. A moan of pleasure escaped Galahad and Mordred grinned. But his pleasure was short lived as Galahad pushed him away, the weakness of this hands proving to Mordred that he did not really want this to stop.

‘Not now. I have something to show you.’

‘Can’t it wait,’ Mordred retorted a little harsher than necessary.

‘Ideally I would wait until nightfall but…’ Galahad did not need to finish his sentence. Mordred knew what he meant, before mass, before the King’s speech, before the wrong celebrations. Mordred reminded himself that at least there would be boar at the table, a boar he had helped chase, capture, and kill. This was one tradition that had seeped from the northern realms to the south. 

‘Let’s get it over with then so we can come back here and hide until night fall.’ Mordred smiled and gestured to the pile of food on his bed. ‘I have supplies to keep us full.’ 

Galahad laughed and placed another delicate kiss on his cheek. He grabbed Mordred’s hand and ran out of the room with him. Mordred followed without questions. Galahad rarely allowed touch between them outside of their chambers. Their affair was no secret to anyone in the castle but at the same time everyone pretended not to know. It wasn’t right for those two knights to know one another in the way they did, everybody agreed on that. But on this one day, barriers broke and people changed. Maybe the spirits did seep through after all. Mordred clutched his lover’s hand harder, unwilling to ever let go. They ran through the corridors, past servants and garlands until they found themselves out of the castle, past the towering walls of the city, and onto a quiet clearing in the woods surrounding Camelot. 

There, in the middle of the grass stood an unlit bonfire of peat and dried heather complimented with a rich array of wood. Mordred stood motionless, speechless. Galahad still holding his hand spoke softly. ‘I had to ask Gaheris about it. I’m not sure it is right but…’ Galahad could not finish his sentence. Mordred lips were on his. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured breathlessly as their lips parted. Galahad stroke his jet black hair. ‘Let’s get it lit up.’

Their bodies parted and Galahad handed Mordred the flint to light the fire. ‘I don’t have a torch I’m afraid…’

‘It’s okay,’ Mordred reassured him. ‘We only need fire.’ He cradled the flint in his hands, weighing them, rotating them, feeling them. It was not the organic softness of the wood digging into his palm, but it would do. He closed his eyes, whispering incantations never forgotten as he crouched by the dried pile of flammable matter. He inhaled deeply, the scent of rich earth and expectant fire making him dizzy with excitement. ‘Let the spirits in,’ he begged, his words drowned by the clattering of flint against flint. Sparks danced in the air and Mordred was sure he could hear them crackle and burn the boundaries between this world and the others. He smacked the stones harder against one another until enough sparks jigged around him and the dried heather caught them, nurtured them, and exploded into flames. He remained close, far too close, his skin heated to the point of hurting, his eyes dry and painful. _Take me in…_ he prayed silently. When he could whitsand it no longer, he stood up and retreated carefully, counting his steps. His legs were far longer than they used to be when he was small, the jump would be easier.

‘Take my hand,’ he asked Galahad without tearing his gaze away from the dancing flames. Galahad obeyed. His flesh felt cold against Mordred’s own warmed skin. ‘Follow me.’ Galahad squeezed his hand in reply. Mordred took a couple more steps back, eyes alight with a mad fever not entirely his own, until he judged the distance was enough. 

‘Run!’ His voice was loud and clear, raspy as if he had inhaled smoke but there wasn’t any. His body launched forward, Galahad hand firmly in his. It was wrong to carry this knight over the fire unprepared. He knew that but could not stop himself. He needed him there, he needed him to be brushed by the spirits he didn’t believe in, he needed him transformed for one brief instant. He knew that the light of day would keep many spirits at bay too but he didn’t care. Enough would be around. He could begin to sense them, gathering around the fire, drawn in by his words of faith, his burning need to be changed, cradled, and transformed. 

Galahad did not let go, not even when it became clear they were launching themselves at the fire, not around the fire. Mordred jumped, the weight of Galahad following him, hand warm and secure within him. For the briefest of moment, he sensed his body falling into the flames, the tongues of hungry spirits lashing themselves to his ankles, dragging him down. He still wasn’t brave enough to give in, to become one with them, not when Galahad was by his side anchoring him to this world.

They tumbled on the grass on the other side of the flames, body clashing in a messy pile of uncoordinated limbs. Mordred closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of Galahad weight on top of him like the embrace of a million spirits around his now strong body. He could sense them grinning, dancing, celebrating for the return of their long thought lost friend. ‘I’m still here…,’ he whispered.

‘So you are,’ Galahad replied. Mordred opened his eyes surprised to find his lover there. He stared at him dazed trying to remember what he was doing here with him. Mordred reached a hand up to the other knight, heavy and steeped with spirits. He hesitated for a moment before touching the flesh of his cheek, afraid to let the spirits loose in the body of someone who did not understand them, did not welcome them, afraid to be brought back to the reality of this world. But Galahad was strong, Galahad was pure and the spirits could not touch him. His own set of beliefs, his god he was so eager to please would protect him. Mordred closed the gap between his hand and Galahad’s cheek. A jolt of electricity coursed through his body at the touch, the spirits within him raging with lust and love and envy and care and need. Mordred jerked upright, reaching for the other knight’s mouth, crashed his lips against his and devoured him in a hungry kiss. Galahad froze in his arms, surprised at the intensity coming from Mordred, but soon relaxed as Mordred’s lips softened. A moan of pleasure escaped from their embrace and Mordred wasn’t sure if the sound was coming from him of Galahad. Spirits jigged inside of him, burning his core to melting point, flowing over every feeling of anger and hatred to replace them with something new, something Mordred could not quite identify but which echoed his memories of childhood, changelings taking hold of him and answering his every wish in a mad dizzying embrace.

Breathless, he parted from Galahad. ‘Thank you…’  
He felt the pressure of Galahad’s hand in his own, the roughness of his skin soothed by the spirits still cocooning his body. He fell back to the earth, Galahad following him to the ground. He closed his eyes, letting the flames illuminate the hidden worlds only closed eyes could glance at, letting the spirits dance in the woods of Camelot before they would be chased back north by the tolling bells of Galahad’s angels.


End file.
